


Accident

by cuntoid



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Beating, Blood, Degradation, F/M, Holding, Orgasm Denial, Piss kink, big bad bob gray being fucking gross, bless'm, bob gray is the grossest bitch oh my god, cage use, carnivalfuck, humilition, vague mindfuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 09:15:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20739824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuntoid/pseuds/cuntoid
Summary: Bob Gray gives you exactly what you deserve for being such a nasty fucking slut.





	Accident

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for the prompt! love Bob and plan on doing a lot more with him. hope it pleases ya kindly

It’s hard to judge just how long you’ve been in the cage.

On top, there are two heavy boots, legs crossed at the ankle. The bars of the cage tremble and clink, chains around the door shimmying like bells. The sound joins his uneven breath, it joins the metallic rattling and your own blood rushing in your ears, and the sight of him petting the ridiculous bulge in his slacks while he squirms. He’s slack-jawed, drooling, eyes heavy and focused, unfocused, focused again. 

There are empty seats and risers in a semi-circle around you, rusted with age. You can practically hear the creaking despite the lack of an audience. In your head, it sounds hollow, warped, just the thought of it creepy enough to make you shudder. Goosebumps ripple down your arms, over your ribs and thighs. 

“Wish there were _people_ in here, little creature?”

He grins and saliva dribbles down his chin. Around you is aching, echoing emptiness, like a vacuum. Sounds within the tent are magnified, caught in the low, insectile buzz in the background, and focusing on it only forces it to retreat. Hiding. Chittering. Beyond the ragged flaps of the entrance, wind whips banners and flags around, shakes the trees in the distance and sends leaves and carnival garbage whirling around the midway. Not a sound penetrates the perimeter of the tent. It’s like watching a movie on mute, the world moving on behind some invisible barrier. You’re isolated here.

_Trapped._

The cage is small. It’s barely big enough for you to be on your hands and knees, naked, shivering under his constant watch. Between your thighs, your pulse makes itself known. Each throb brings you a little closer to release, but it’s a race to see which releases first – your dripping cunt or your full, tight bladder, feeling fuller every passing minute. 

“_No_,” you breathe. The thought of anyone seeing you like this, locked up and trembling with your bare ass in the air, is beyond anything you could handle. You peek at the risers and they shimmer. They seem to slip in and out of focus, and in the weird blur, there are shapes. People. Loads of them, faces smeared and unclear, blipping in and out like a glitch. 

Glancing at Bob Gray treats you to the sight of his big hands around his cock, leaking down around his knuckles. He’s sneering down at you, tugging leisurely at himself while you flicker between him and the spectral audience, and it seems that with each passing glance, they disappear and reappear, refusing to conform to your perception of the room around you. It’s scary. The people don’t really look like people, only like they’re _trying_ to.

_Like Bob_. Bob, with his wet snarl, his sleepy eyes and sharp teeth. His eyes glimmer at you, snapping orange like a wildfire. He lifts his boots off the cage and spreads his thighs, pumping his cock with a little more purpose. He swipes his fingers up over the slippery head and shudders, giggling, his soft belly peeking from under his untucked shirt. It’s nearly threadbare with age. 

“Can see ya _shakin_.” He sucks his teeth, mocking you with a violent shiver that shakes his massive frame. “_Ooh_, tiny thing, can see how _bad you want it_. Stupid little pet. Does it hurt? Does it feel _sooo bad_ to _hold… it… in?_”

Eyes on the floor. It’s all you can focus on aside from the burning ache. The more it aches, the worse it gets. The worse it gets, the more you throb. 

“Can I… _please… go to the bathroom?_”

He shakes his head, a thread of drool breaking off to patter into the dirt near his feet. He’s swollen, dripping just like you are. He moans and shakes his head harder, the laughter bubbling up from deep in his chest. 

“No, _no,_ I _want _you to hold it. Be a good girl, hm? Don’t make a big fuckin’ mess in my tent, you hear? Do ya _kennit, little animal_, does it _do ya well?_”

“_Please, I really_ – it… _hurts_ –”

He stands so suddenly that his chair topples behind him, and he towers over the cage like you’re the smallest thing in the world. He’s enormous. He takes the step until his big boots are toeing the edge of the cage, knocking into the thin bars, and not once does he stop touching his cock. He bends low and watches you, looks at you from every angle. His saliva drips down onto your back. It’s warm, unbearably so as it slides down the curve of your ribcage to your belly. He reaches into the cage, shoves his hand between your legs.

There, he rubs at your clit. It’s sloppy and quick, less about teasing and more about piling on the pressure. It’s searing. It feels like a molten ball in your belly, twisting, pressing down, down, _down_ against your bladder, each contraction deep in your cunt only dragging your misery to the surface. It’s getting harder to ignore, harder to push down below. 

“Does it hurt so, _so bad?_ Is this old man _huuurting you?_”

“_Ohmygodohmygod._..”

Bucking your hips away is impossible. You can only fall back against his fingers, and the more you worm away from him, the more he giggles. The more he strays from your clit, teasing you where you can’t have him. _Not now_. Not with all that bright pain inside, ready to burst, and yet here he is, cooing at you with his fingers sliding inside. 

“No gods here. Not even close. Nothing but _me_, nothing but your _slimy little cunt._ You smell so _good_, too… come out, tiny thing. Come on out. _Let. Me. Smell. You_.”

“No, I can’t, _I can’t!_” Your voice draws high, so whiny and pathetic that it doesn’t take looking him in the face to know that he’s enjoying it. His smirk shapes his words, spits them at you like his fucking drool. They float through the air like a miasma, circling your mind, like moths. _Smell you let me smell you come out tiny thing come out you scared does it hurt does it hurt doesitHURT_

“_Oh_.” He moans the word, like it rumbles up from his body, and his breath flutters through your hair. Sweat prickles at your hairline, and the first drip travels down over your temple. He takes the cage in both hands, so many slippery fingers, and takes a steadying breath. You can’t look away from him, crouched over the cage with his heavy cock out, with his big hands gripping the enclosure like he means to twist the metal. He glares down at you with a smile on his face. “_Oooh,_ you can’t? But _this_… is the _circus_. _Anything can happen here._”

He takes his hands, pounds his fists on the top of the cage. It rattles around you and you jump, yelping, and after all, you do feel like a dumb animal. He pounds them again, _again_, and all you can do is freeze up. Your bladder burns. Your cunt _aches._

“_Anything!_ Let me show you.”

With each strike, he grunts, and those melt off into laughter as he starts to count down with each smack of his big hands, slamming against the metal until they scrape open, the meat of his palms tearing and bleeding freely. _SIX. FIVE. FOURRRR, THHRREEEEEEE, TWWOOOO…._.

“_ONE!_”

A final, heavy slam of his fists and the cage is _gone._

He stops just short of your back, hands coming to a complete halt as you brace for impact, and then his red, shredded palms lay flat against you. His blood feels scalding. The cage is just gone, absent from the tent entirely. You look around, frantic, looking up, looking at him, but there’s nothing to see. Nothing but his broad shoulders, his knowing smirk. 

“What do you think?” He winks at you, slow, like you’re sharing a secret. 

“It’s - that’s… where did it… _go?_”

“Gone the way of many other things in my time, filthy thing. Don’t worry about that. It’s been taken care of, and now _you_ should be.”

There’s no grace to the way he yanks you by the hips, no thought to how you fight a losing fight, barely squirming out of reach when he pulls you flush against him. He grabs handfuls of your ass, spreads you open, grinds his cock up against every inch of you. 

“Gunna fuck you full, fuller than you could imagine. Isn’t that _nice?_ Don’t act like you don’t want it. _I know_. I know you do, even though you need to go _oh so bad_.”

He dissolves into a fit of manic laughter and it bounces off the walls of the tent. Beyond them, the world still moves. The storm has picked up, but none of that is perceptible in here, nothing except the snatches of midway as the flap waves in the wind. Sometimes there are people walking in the distance, and sometimes there are people close by, people that barely resemble people. Watching. Smiling, pointing. 

His cock is massive as he is, but with how utterly soaked your cunt is, he forces it inside with little issue. It’s mind-numbing how good it is, how he’s right – you are full, so blissfully full, every inch of his cock spreading you open and finding nerves you barely know of. He tilts his hips and pounds into you, like he’s going to fuck through to your guts and into your bladder. It’s too much. It’s way too much pressure, and the first warning pangs of loss of control are flooding your nervous system, face burning with the effort, voice drawn so high and sharp you could cut him with it.

“_I can’t I can’t I can’t, I’m gunna – please – oh my god PLEASE let me go_,” you sputter. Words leave in no specific order, rushed, clear only in their desperation.

He pulls you _closer_.

“_Hold it_,” he demands. He doesn’t let up. It’s a strange sensation that travels all the way down to your feet, like hot wire, and you start crying. He leans over your body and folds over you until he can grab your face, tilt it toward him. He licks your tears off your face and laughs, breath like smoke, like old meat and dead leaves and something else, something familiar. He’s inescapable. “Aren’t you a _big girl?_ Can’t hold it for me, baby, can’t be a big girl? _Don’t wet yourself!_ Don’t have an _aaaaccident_ all over _Daaaddy!_”

He laughs and your body betrays you. It’s inevitable. He slows his hips after the initial break in concentration, the warm dribble in the dust, and then he’s howling as you piss yourself. His cock throbs, balls-deep, holding you as tight against his body as he can manage as it wets through his slacks and over his thighs, puddles below the two of you. You hang your head with your eyes squeezed shut, trying to ignore the orgasmic rush of release, like a climax of its very own. It feels good. It feels so _good._

“_Filthy fucking creature. Nasty slut._ Disobedient little thing, aren’t you?” 

Bladder relieved, the reality of your situation caves in around you. _Fuck_. You stammer apologies, over and over and over, shaking with them, coming apart underneath his stilled form. He still has his fingers buried in your flesh. He squeezes them and you moan, and his cock throbs. 

“You’re _sorry_. You’re _sooo sorry_. Oh, tell me, tell me how goddamn _sorry_ you are.”

As you continue gushing your apologies, there’s a tickle in the back of your throat. Coughing takes it away for a moment, but it comes back, an itch unlike anything you’ve experienced before. Coughing turns into gagging, into hacking over the floor until you’re the one drooling, dry-heaving, shaking in the dirt with piss down your legs and a cunt full of him, and…. _something_… touching the back of your tongue. Something _in_ your throat. There’s something in your fucking throat, rising up, and Bob sticks his fingers in your mouth.

He reaches back, stuffs his long fingers back there until he grabs it and PULLS. He drags the thing over your tongue and out from your throat like he’s doing an act, and half of you expects to see multicolored scarves when your vision stabilizes, when you’re not stuck behind a screen of tears as you try not to vomit on his hand. An eternal, painful moment later, he shows you.

He’s holding a crop. An entire crop, wet and slippery with your saliva, your mucus. 

“You ready to be_ so, so_ sorry?”

He lands the crop on your back. It stings and pulls you back to life, and his hips start moving again. There’s no rhythm to lead into; he fucks you open until you’re moaning and crying and begging, throwing nonsense words into the hot, muggy atmosphere of the tent. You can smell your own piss, his breath on the back of your neck. He rains blows down with the crop and each stings more than the last, forcing your tired throat to shriek, to yelp, to make all manner of embarrassing sounds under his ministrations. He rolls his hips like he knows your flesh from the inside, knows exactly where to nudge, how to adjust his vicious pace. 

“I can feel that _nasty cunt_ tightening up on my cock. You gunna cum soon? Would you like that, to cum all over Bob Gray’s big, mean dick? Want Daddy to let you have it?”

“_Yes_.” It’s the most honest, most coherent word you’ve spoken, clear as a bell, slicing up through his frenzied breaths and grunts. He giggles and hums, hits you over and over in the same spot with the crop. Your back glows with it, marks up and down your spine, blooming, warping your flesh into a purpled, welted landscape.

“_That’s too bad,_ because if you disobey me and cum without permission, I’ll do more than beat you. I’ll take this pretty skin right off, see what’s underneath. _Oh, yes, I will._ I’ll see what you’re _really _made of. You’ll see just how messy and disgusting I can make you. So… _don’t… cum._”

He rubs your clit, giggling, knocking your weak hands away when you reach down to grab at him, to twist away. There’s no escaping. There never was, not at any point. Beyond the flapping tent, everything is now still. Birds hang midair, people mid-walk, and everything is staring through the frozen tent-flap. The people aren’t people. Things watch you with their unchanging non-faces, expressions beyond what you can really understand as human. Terror grows inside you like ice, turning your blood cold, and yet Bob Gray ruts into you all the same and plays with your clit until you’re fighting a different kind of pressure than before. 

“_Better not cum, little thing, you better fucking not cum_.”

Finally, his movements become erratic, his hand stalling. He throws the crop and wraps his arms around your waist, down by your hips, and squeezes. He holds you in that vice-grip and it’s almost more painful than the crop wounds, crushing against your pelvis, against your hipbones as he bottoms out with each thrust. It feels like you may come apart in his arms, and that delicious knot of heat gets tighter and tighter and tighter and he’s beating you to the punch. 

His cock seems to expand, filling any last inch of flesh he can manage before he’s moaning, growling in your ear. Cum fills your cunt, shoots so deep you can’t stand it. Wriggling against him only milks him further. He rocks and rides out his climax while you whine. 

After he’s done with you, he pulls out, shoving you by the hip so that you fall over in the dirt. Urine soaks your legs. His cum drools out of your cunt and he leans down to peer at it, to spread it open so he can watch, fingers tracing as you throb with neglect. He swipes at your clit and you shudder. 

“_Good girl_. In the end, you all listen. You _all_ want to be good, at the end of it.”

He stands up and fixes himself up, wipes his chin free of his spit, watches you catching your breath. He bends to pick up a pile of your clothing and he tosses the articles at your face, cruel laughter spilling from his lips as you peel them back and attempt to sit up. Your body aches. Everything hurts, everything _wants_. 

“Get the fuck out of my tent and clean yourself up.”

You pull your shirt back over your head, and… he’s gone. 

The tent is empty.

There’s barely a swirl in the dust, no footprints, just your own piss and clothes and your filthy legs, just his cum dripping down your thighs and smearing there.  
Beyond the tent flaps, the storm is over. There’s barely a cloud in the sky, just the deepening evening, the sunset. It’s bright orange. It bleeds over the landscape and casts the windless trees in an eerie light. Birds chitter and games go off deeper in the midway, and it’s like your ears are unblocked. It feels… normal. 

You pull your clothes on and go around to grab a bucket – before you leave for the night, you’ll have to wash away the… spot. Seeing it there sets your cheeks aflame all over again, feeling the sticky dirt on your legs. 

Just outside of the tent is the bucket, a single red balloon lifting the handle.


End file.
